Face your fear
by Ertal77
Summary: Sherlock and John's friendship is tested when Professor Lupin makes them face a boggart in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.


_Based on a lovely potterlock fanart you sure have seen (trying to find the link at the moment, still no luck but I promise I will find it and add it here)._

_Betaed by LadySybyl. Thank you for your kindness, speed and accuracy!_

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><p>They weren't even in the same house: John was in Gryffindor and Sherlock was a Ravenclaw. How could it be any other way? John had guessed his new friend would be put in Ravenclaw in the train ride itself.<p>

The bony skinny boy had sat by his side and then proceeded to ignore him completely. John tried to talk to the other kids in his carriage, but they were older and shot him disdainful glances, grinning. So he left them to their gossips and tried to distract himself by looking out the window. The landscape was gorgeous, but ten minutes later he was already bored of it. He was daydreaming, imagining how Hogwarts would be, when a voice gave him a start. He turned; the teenagers were still chattering, but the slim dark-haired boy was now looking at him.

"I beg you pardon?" he said, confused.

"I said", repeated the boy with a loud sigh, "Will you let me study your books? I have always been interested in muggle medicine."

John felt his cheeks blush, and his eyes wandered towards his suitcase, where his dad's old medical books were hidden under all his clothes and school books. Did this guy have x-ray eyes? He had read a story like that once, in a comic… He shook his head, telling his inner self off for having those thoughts. His new classmates would think he was childish and stupid!

But the dark-haired boy wasn't mocking at him. He was serious, and kept his light blue eyes fixed on John with a curious look. John gave a quick side glance to the other boys in the carriage and then answered quietly:

"How do you know what kind of books I have in my suitcase? And please, keep your voice down."

The boy looked surprised and his eyes followed John's glance.

"Don't worry, they are busy with their insubstantial babble. And I'm not asking you to show them to me here on the train. But once we are at Hogwarts, will you please?"

"You haven't answered me."

The sky blue eyes moved up and down John's figure with an amused shine, and then he started to talk really fast:

"You have a badge from the Faculty of Medicine of Edinburgh University sewn to your backpack; that is pretty obvious, I would say. The stitches also show marks of having been sewn to a previous bag before, so someone gave it to you, and you keep it close, even among the few belongings you are bringing to Hogwarts, for its sentimental value. You sewed it yourself, I see, and you have already practiced on your own to sew injuries… You see how those stitches are peaked and sideways? They don't look at all the way your mother would have sewn them."

"How do you know that my mother is not a doctor?" John retorted, with a lopsided grin.

"Then the stitches would be perfect, don't you think? Those are made by a beginner."

John looked down at his backpack again. Oh.

"And then she is obviously too busy to sew that herself, but not earning enough money to hire house help… Your sandwiches were clearly packaged by you, too".

John frowned and reached for his backpack, zipping it properly, so the boy couldn't peek at its content any more. But the boy suddenly widened his eyes and gasped quietly. John turned back to him, and was surprised to see a blush appearing on the pale cheeks.

"What now?" he asked, slightly annoyed. What else could he have seen?

"My mom told me to apologise in these cases, so I should say that I'm sorry. And my condolences, too". John's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "All the evidences point to your father having been dead for some years now… That was my first deduction, in fact, and that's why I supposed you would be carrying some of his medical books to Hogwarts… But I hadn't thought that this train of thoughts could be a bit rude and disrespectful when explained to you… So please accept my apologies."

John couldn't close his mouth. The dark-haired boy deflated and looked disappointed.

"Well, never mind, you don't have to lend me those books. I shouldn't have asked…"

"You are bloody amazing, you know that?", John managed to mumble at last. The other boy raised his left eyebrow. "Yes, you are! That wasn't magic, I don't think it was, was it?"

He shook slowly his head, a shy smile on his lips.

"I'm simply observant."

"That's not being observant, my mom is observant and she can always guess what I'm thinking, or what have I eaten or whatever… But you? You're just awesome!"

The shy smile became a wide one, his owner lowering his face to try to hide it. John stretched his hand out to the other boy.

"John Watson."

Amused light blue eyes stared at his hand without taking it.

"OK, I'll lend you my books if you want them so much…" John added with a smile, not lowering his hand.

Then the boy shook his hand quickly, his smile reaching his eyes at last, in the first sincere and open look since their conversation began.

"Sherlock Holmes. Glad to meet you!"

But that was ages ago, of course. While they were more or less the same height at eleven, during their first year at Hogwarts Sherlock had begun to outgrown John. Three inches in the last two years alone! So now, at sixteen, John was still pretty average all around while Sherlock was broad shouldered but lanky, with long extremities he never knew where to put. John smiled every time he caught sight of his friend by the lake, lying in the grass, trying to look casual but ending just uncomfortable, as John knew. As John approached their meeting point under the willow, his friend changed the position of his long legs at least four times. The Gryffindor boy giggled, happy. He loved those rare moments shared with his best friend. He regretted they couldn't share the dorm or the dinner table, but at least they had some lessons in common, and of course this, their free time. He finally arrived and dropped his books beside Sherlock, sitting down closer to the water.

"Hey, what are you doing over there! Come sit here", Sherlock demanded.

But John was already gathering some small stones and, cross legged, proceeded to skip them, making them bounce across the silvery water. The sun shone high in the sky, exactly between the two ridges that wrapped Hogwarts protectively. Sherlock and John always saved some of their lunch time to meet each other: if they ate quickly, they could enjoy half an hour together before their afternoon lessons began.

Two Hufflepuff girls came walking by the water until they were near them. Sherlock pretended the girls were not there, but they giggled and greeted John, and he of course returned the greeting and smiled at them. The girls didn't approach them close enough to engage in a conversation, but they walked away still grinning and looking pointedly at John. Sherlock sighed, not even trying to hide his annoyance.

"I've noticed the amount of girls trying to hit on you has increased to an alarmingly high peek this last week…"

John looked back to his friend with a startled face. He crawled closer to Sherlock, under the shadow of their willow.

"Sherlock, do you remember what time of the year is it? Does "Yule" remind you of something?"

Sherlock just glared, his eyes a dark green reflection of the lake.

"The ball, Sherlock! God, you really delete things off that big brain of you, don't you? How could you forget the ball? Nobody talks about anything else these days…"

The Ravenclaw boy turned his cold gaze towards the water; he looked so aloof that John felt suddenly shunted aside. It happened sometimes with Sherlock, no matter how hard John tried to avoid it.

"I'm not _everybody_, John, as you sure remember. And I'm not interested in balls". He stared the water in silence for a full minute. John was about to grab again his books and leave his friend alone, when Sherlock added, "Hmmm… I suppose you are going to that Yule ball, though. Have you chosen someone to go with yet?"

John relaxed a bit and tried to smile at his friend.

"No, not yet. Do you want to help me choose?"

"Me? Really? OK, tell me the alternatives…"

It was almost class time, so they got up, stretched their arms lazily, took their books and strolled towards the main building, commenting on John's prospecting dates and laughing. Sherlock could find a fatal defect for every person John named in the school, it was hilarious! But it didn't help John to choose a girl, of course. When they arrived to their class, the only one they shared that year, John had decided that he was going alone to the damned ball. He wasn't very thrilled to attend, in fact, since Sherlock wouldn't be there. What fun is a ball if your very best friend is not there with you? And Sherlock seemed so annoyed lately… He was grumpy every time John hung out with someone else, he had always been like that. John didn't mind, he accepted Sherlock the way he was. Sherlock was clever, and witty, and funny in his own way. And loyal. And charming. And crazy. Surely all of that was worth that possessive streak in him?

John looked at his friend as they sat down in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Sherlock kept talking excitedly, and John's thoughts had sidetracked and now he had no idea of what he was talking about (something to do with a new potion he was developing, it seemed), so John just frown and nodded, trying to catch up. The filtered sunlight shone on Sherlock's dark curls and his face on profile. John suddenly thought how gorgeous his friend was, with those beautiful cat-like changing eyes and the delicate but masculine bone structure of his face… And those full, neatly defined lips… John fought the sudden knot in his stomach when Sherlock turned to look at him, a puzzled frown on his face. John busied himself looking for their last lesson in the book.

Then Professor Lupin came in the classroom. He was John's favourite teacher (Sherlock said he was OK, too), so they listened in silence to his explanations. A boggart. Professor Lupin had a boggart in that cupboard! Right there, inside the classroom! That was exciting, even Sherlock had a sparkle of interest in his eyes and couldn't sit quiet. They practiced their _Riddikulus_ charm and then watched, open-mouthed, as the first classmates made the boggart turn into a giant rat, a fire and an old grumpy woman: that strange creature changed his body adapting to the worst fear of the nearest person. It was frightening. Their _Riddikulus_ charm turned the feared thing into something… well, ridiculous, as the name of the charm pointed out.

John was more and more nervous with each change of the boggart. He wondered what the creature would change into when it was his turn. What did he fear the most? Poverty, perhaps; his mother and he were through rough times when his father died, after all. But how poverty was going to be represented? His mother in rags? He didn't want all his peers to know that… It was embarrassing. If he feared some kind of bug, caterpillars, perhaps… That would be a lot easier. He looked at Sherlock and wondered, what would the boggart show? Sherlock didn't fear anything. He seemed so self-confident…

"Watson, your turn, please". His teacher's gentle voice took him by surprise. Already? "Wand in hand? Charm ready? Well, there it goes!"

John licked his lips, raised his wand and came closer the creature (who looked like a china doll right then). As soon he was eight feet from the thing, the doll swirled and its shape changed… John gulped and stood tall, prepared for the worst. He was brave; he could win over any silly bug or childish fear or even the sight of his beloved mother in distress. He could, he would!

But the resulting form wasn't his mother, or a bug, or a giant fiery dog. It was a dark shape lying on the ground. Even before the swirling ended, John realised, horrified, that it was dark because it was shrouded in a Hogwarts robe. When the form quieted and took a clear and defined face, John's heart clenched: that face, the straight nose and high prominent cheekbones, and still worse, _those open eyes_, a blue so light that it seemed silver… and then the streaks of dark blood splashing it. There was more blood on his chest, a deep open wound, and a little crimson puddle forming under the body of his friend.

John wanted to scream, but he couldn't draw air into his lungs, and suddenly felt like choking. His knees gave out, and he could feel wetness on his face, even though he didn't remember starting to cry. He crawled, in his knees, towards the lying body, his hands reaching blindly for his friend's hair.

"John! John!" Professor Lupin's voice seemed to come from far, far away. "Use your wand! Use the _Riddikulus_ charm, you can do it! Sherlock, please, take him away from here!"

And suddenly two strong arms struggled to lift him and tear him out, but he fought them, a silent scream (_"Sherlock!"_) in his mouth.

"John, John, I'm here, I'm alright, please look at me!"

And that was Sherlock's voice, impossible to mistake for another, and the grip on his upper arms tightened and at last John allowed himself to be turned around… to face the pale eyes of his friend, full of concern. John embraced the thin waist, still on his knees, and hid his wet face in his friend's sweater. He even rubbed his cheek against the fabric, eager to feel the warmth of Sherlock's body, full of life.

But then he realised where and when he was, and the fact that all his classmates were watching him with their mouths open, startled. He scrambled away from Sherlock, staggered up and run for the door.

"John!" Sherlock yelled behind him.

He didn't stop, he couldn't. He thought of going back to their willow by the lake; he thought of going to his dorm, but in the end Sherlock caught him before he even reached the stairs. Damned those long legs of his.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders again and spun him around, made him stop running. John tried to regain his breath, hanging his head, not daring to look up at his friend.

"John, please, look at me".

"I can't…"

"Why?"

"Because when I look at you, you will have blood in your face, and a mortal wound in your chest".

A cool hand ran down his arm to his hand; Sherlock placed them both on his own chest, where John could feel his warmth and his heartbeat.

"Can you feel it? I'm alive. I'm safe. It was just a boggart, John".

John ventured a glance upwards into Sherlock's face. It was milky pale, as always, with a few feeble freckles on his nose, and no trace of blood on it. John's hand reached for a soft cheek, cupping that dear face, making sure his owner was really alive. Sherlock was so close to him that he could feel his breath on his own face. His eyes were soft, fixed on him, and John felt the time suspended as he got completely lost inside his friend's gaze. Eventually he noticed movement around them, and saw some of their classmates leaving the classroom. Of course, it was the end of lesson time; the corridor would be full of people in a moment. John felt suddenly embarrassed. He didn't want to face his peers right now, being asked questions, being called… what? Exactly what? And Sherlock, what would he think of him? And he was still clinging to him… He let go of his friend, and he would swear that he could see a hint of disappointment there. Not that he was going to embarrass himself any further saying anything aloud, of course.

"Come, John, let's fetch our books".

"You go; I'll come back for mine later".

"No, I want you to see something, besides".

John reluctantly followed Sherlock back to the classroom, trying to avoid looking in the eye of any of the mates they crossed. Once inside the classroom, the last pupils were tucking their things inside bookbags and chatting quietly. Sherlock didn't stop until he was in front of the boggart's cupboard. Professor Lupin was already tucking his notes away, but he raised his eyes as they approached the front of the room.

"Oh! John, you gave me a fright! Are you alright?"

The boy nodded. Sherlock stepped forward.

"Professor Lupin, I didn't have the chance to face my boggart."

"There wasn't more time anyway, Sherlock. You and some of your peers will have a chance next day, don't worry".

"If you don't mind, I would like to try now".

Lupin let his gaze wander from Sherlock to John and back, and then nodded.

"Take your wand out. Are you ready? John, stay a bit further. Now, I'm letting it go… Yours, Sherlock!"

The shape twirled again, changing too fast to keep track of its movements. When it settled, John saw dark blonde hair over a Gryffindor robe… It was him! How could it be? It was supposed to be Sherlock's deepest fear, and it was him…

Then he studied his false self, the boggart version of him. It was like staring a mirror… but something was off. What was it? The eyes, definitely. That copy of John was looking at Sherlock with cold eyes. It wasn't anger. It was… lack of recognition, perhaps? And then something changed, his mouth twitched into a grin, and it wasn't a nice grin, at all. His face suddenly seemed… _cruel_. Mocking. John turned to look at his friend. Sherlock's face was a study in pain. His eyes were squinted, his nose wrinkled and there was a shine of withheld tears on his eyes: he wasn't hiding anything at all, it was all clearly written on his features, so easy to read for John as common clues were easy for Sherlock. Then the Ravenclaw closed his eyes, breathed deeply and raised his wand:

"_Riddikulus!_" he exclaimed, his voice loud and clear.

John's awful copy whirled and turned into Father Christmas, all red and rounded forms, a peaceful and rather silly smile on his wide face.

"Perfect!" Lupin said. "Time you two go to your next lesson, boys…"

And he closed the boggart again inside the cupboard. As his pupils didn't seem very eager to leave, he packed up his books and notebooks and left the classroom. They were alone now.

They still had their eyes on each other, but words didn't come. At last, John went for:

"Your deepest fear is me. Me, not being me".

Sherlock gulped.

"I had to show you. You know, in case you were embarrassed because of your boggart's form".

"I'm still a bit embarrassed".

"Don't be".

They were closer now. John thought: _If I reach out now, I'm close enough to touch his arm_. He studied Sherlock's face. But he wasn't like Sherlock, he couldn't guess every little thought passing across the others' mind: all he could see was confusion. That wasn't very helpful. _Or perhaps it is_, he thought as he moved forward, enveloping his friend in a tight hug. Sherlock's body was tense in his arms, but John was stubborn: once he made his mind up, doubts could be damned. He reached again for Sherlock's cheek with one hand, the other one still at his friend's back and raised his own face until his lips touched those full, beautiful ones.

It took Sherlock a moment to catch up and react. And his reaction was reaching with both hands to John's face. John felt delicate, feather-like caresses on his cheekbones and jaw, and then two firmer hands settled, one on his nape and one on his hip, and suddenly the lips against his opened and John felt he could cry again. But this time it would be tears of relief and pure happiness.

Sherlock was safe and sound, Sherlock was there. And besides, he didn't need a date for the Yule ball any more.


End file.
